The Pirates of Somalia_ Inside Their Hidden World - Jay Bahadur [46]
Omar selected one of the half-dozen Kalashnikovs lying scattered around us—which he had recently purchased for the high-end price of $600—and declared that it must be tested. I jumped to my feet and eagerly volunteered for the assignment. Omar and I moved past the hedge marking the boundary of the farm to the banks of the trickling Nugaal River, which was struggling with its last rebellious spurts against the encroaching dry season.
Countless hours of news footage of obscure post-Cold War insurgencies had not prepared me for the raw, ear-shattering power of the AK-47. The two shots I fired into the river’s embankment seemed to make the whole earth boom and shake, until I realized that it was my own body being contorted by the force of the recoil. By comparison, the faint bursts of dust marking where the bullets hit were sadly anti-climactic. I returned to the gathering with a stupid grin stretching across my face, and was greeted by an array of patronizing smiles from the circle of pirates—the look of hardened veterans at the overzealous enthusiasm of an amateur.
I didn’t bother with any interview questions that day, but chatted amiably and did my best to blend in with the boys. My goal was achieved when, late in the afternoon, the pirates began discussing something between themselves in hushed voices. They appeared to reach a consensus, at which point Momman turned to me: “We’ve decided that you’re a cool guy,” he said.
It had been a day well spent.
* * *
Two days later, we returned to the same spot, arms weighted down with even bulkier bags of khat—and thus with a commensurately larger pirate gathering in tow. Boyah, when we picked him up on the side of the road, let us know that he had had a rough night. “I was terribly sick with a kidney problem,” he said. “I thought I was going to die, so I said goodbye to my kids. But I’m feeling much better today.” He hopped into the 4×4 and waited patiently for us to get under way.
Two other cars joined us, bringing the total gathering of pirates to seven: Boyah, Momman, Ali Ghedi, Mohammad Duale (I have changed his name), Ahmed Jadob, and two others to whom I was not properly introduced. Much like last time, we rolled out the dirins and flopped down, propped up on our elbows. Pulling two bundles of the wilting leaves out of the bag, Boyah offered me my pick. I hesitated for a moment before I remembered an earlier crash course in khat quality given to me by the Colonel. Quickly scanning the bundle, I chose the bunch with the greatest abundance of red-tinged stems. Boyah smiled, laughed, and slapped my leg playfully, uttering some words of praise. He was still wearing the Blue Jays shirt, evidenced by the powder-blue collar poking out from under his cotton overshirt.
The reason these men were so willing to talk to me went beyond the complimentary khat. When I had last seen him, four months ago, Boyah had been on a personal quest to atone for his past misdeeds. Now, it seemed, his feelings of remorse had spread to his former colleagues: each of the men around me claimed to have renounced piracy, never to return to his former trade—and they wanted people to know it. “It wasn’t good, either for us or our country,” explained Boyah. “It’s cursed money—it only made our lives worse. So we quit. We don’t want to get a bad name in foreign countries.”
When I suggested that the recent proliferation of warships off the Somali coast had provided an equally compelling reason to turn in one’s rocket-propelled grenades and grappling ladder, I was met with a round of scornful laughter. “Don’t think that we’re scared,” said Boyah. “Piracy is just not good for us. We’re quitting so that Somalia can get its nice name back. Seven months ago … French and US forces were killing us, and we didn’t stop then.”
As had been the case two days ago, my companions fell into relaxed conversation, hardly conscious of my presence. For people who had never set foot outside Somalia and had access to no more than a few local TV stations, Boyah and his entourage were surprisingly worldly: